Quietly Painted
by libbyluvs
Summary: It was said in all good fun and intensions, so Kankuro chose to walk away with his back to them, hiding the emotions frozen on his painted face... ...It's normal. That's what he told himself. People get hurt like that and it's not okay, but it's common.


Thick streams gushed from the wooden slots of the puppet, soaking the grass a new color. Kunai dotted the surrounding trees and dirt, deeply puncturing the once common scenery. Scattered about in messy heaps lay the fallen, those too cocky to see the danger in glorified war dolls and blue strings. The leftovers of a sloppily coordinated assault stained the setting a gory kind of abstract, and in the middle of it all lie one stubborn fool. He refused to be dead. Faces, laughing and somber alike, stuck steadfast in the clouded jumble of his mind. They said things without words, meant much to him without needing reasons. They encouraged his perseverance and for the moment were all the incentive he required to fight against the dregs of unconsciousness. He struggled to read their lips, to understand the urgency in their eyes.

For all their warnings they could not get him to notice the perfectly healthy one he'd missed.

Kankuro would laugh with the guards at the gates of Sunagakure the times he came home. Their standing joke was that he often left in search of sand bunnies and always returned after being grotesquely outclassed by the cute rodents. He would shrug and say something nonchalant like, 'They pled a good case, what can I say?' The men then said something equally casual with friendly sympathy, 'What can one say in the face of such adversity?', and they'd watch each other with a false intensity until one broke it with a burst of mirth. Kankuro never helped it. They were funny in their own way that they cared, and he would laugh along until his sides busted or one of the boneheads let him through.

This time he hardly acknowledged them long enough to nod a curt greeting and ask to be let through. It was uncharacteristic, and procedure had them relieving the master of his puppets and supplies. When they asked him to remove his clothes the gritted reply they received was enough to confirm his identity. No one's cursing flowed quite as freely off their tongues like second nature than Kankuro. A few sincere apologies and manly back slaps latter and he was cleared for entry. Just before the order to open the gate was given one of the men stopped him with a concerned frown.

"Hey, Kuro," a warm hand rested lightly on the sand shinobi's shoulder, "you okay?"

The younger man tensed for a second before turning to smile at his friends, "Yeah... Please open up, I'm tired and it's been an absolute shit day."

"Sure thing! Hey, rest up for us will you? If you keep limping like that the whole village is gonna have to pitch in to hire a bunny extermination squad."

It was said in all good fun and intensions, so Kankuro chose to walk away with his back to them, hiding the emotions frozen on his painted face.

The life of a shinobi isn't glamorous, isn't easy. In fact, things get crazy fucked up on a regular basis. Drawers and desks- hell, they had whole rooms dedicated to the dead end cases of missions that whole teams of highly trained ninja had embarked on, never to be seen again. The hard fact is (backed up by some nasty statistics) men, women- people –risk becoming injured, permanently maimed, and psychologically compromised every moment of every day there is another person in need of a ninja's expertise. It's not without pain to watch people you know hurt or ignited in honor for their service on the burial pyre.

It's normal. That's what he told himself. People get hurt like that and it's not okay, but it's common.

Kankuro stared at his bare form in the yellow lighting of his dull room, hating what he saw. The puppet master looked worse than ever, and just to spite him, the nerves routed through his system were only too keen on alerting him to how well they functioned with pulsing bursts of raw sensation; over a dozen wounds and aches vying loudly for his attention. He chose to ignore the loudest for just a while longer, sick for what he might see.

 _It happens,_ he snarls, _get over yourself._

The paleness of his skin looked sickly and distasteful. Kankuro rejected the idea that it might just be what his eyes wanted to see, accepting that he actually resembled a rickety corpse. That he appeared used and worn because he was. His arms moved as if weighted down, his hands shaking as they searched every patch of skin above his waist. Any farther and he would-

 _Get fixed, and get dressed. Then I can go to bed and never wake up._

Scrapes and burns along his arms and torso were expected and thoughtlessly tended to. Bruises and minor cuts could be dressed and covered simply enough with clothing. His late pair lay in the wicker hamper to the side of his bed, the sticky tatters wrapped up in a dirty blanket to conceal the evidence from anyone who might stop by to welcome him home.

One particular gash in his left side would require a medical ninja, but wasn't fatal right that second. He'd handle it after…. after he handed in his papers.

 _Gaara! Gaara needs my report. He'll see. He'll know._

He felt as though his insides were made of hot air, like they'd been forcefully pulled from his navel and replaced with dry hollowness. Thinking about the dispassionate glares his little brother was known for turning animated with pity or disgust brought acid into his throat and pin prickled tremors through the rest of him. Gaara could come across as soulless at times, but for him to see what Kankuro was like now…

 _Like fucking hell_!

Angered by his weakness and for allowing this to happen to him, Kankuro moved too hastily. The third wild step to his dresser brought him to his knees in a shock of pain, his reaction belated by raging emotions. He clamped his jaw hard to keep from crying out. This, this was nothing. He'd felt worse.

Like that morning.

 _Suck it up you whiney bitch. The mission's not over until you report. It's not that bad, just look._

Kankuro stopped breathing. And looked down.

 _Oh, god. Oh, my god._

Feelings the overwhelmed man wasn't equipped to contain seared liquid trails down his cheeks, blurring in with the smudges of purple paint that'd been disfigured when his head was held down and smashed against the rough ground.

 _H-how do you fix that!? How can you fix that!?_

Kankuro cried into a clenched fist, desperately wanting to un-see.

 _Oh, god. Help me!_

Mana was awoken by a soft put repetitive tapping on the old wood of her business' back door. Wide awake in an instant there was a small, curved blade in her aged hand. The odds of her needing it were slim. Most who came seeking her in the night sought delicate assistance, company, or a wise ear, but it is better to be a wary chicken out of habit than a dead one.

Something about the rhythm of the hesitant knocking stirred motherly fondness in her chest. Only one doll demon would call for her like that. Calmly, Mana held the knife steadily in her aged hand and unbolted the door with the other.

The soft light of the moon highlighted the slumped silhouette in her doorway, marking the familiar shape, and leaving no doubt as to who her surprise guest was.

"Kuro, child, what brings you here?" Mana's smile as tender as her caring voice.

The man gasped, shining wetness pooled in tiny puddles at his feet, flowing from his haunted face shocked her that she hadn't noticed.

"Kuro?"

"Gaara and Temari! M-Mana, I'm scared- I-I'm sorry."

The old woman took the broken one into her arms, letting him mess her night clothes in favor of giving him comfort. The knife was forgotten on the back steps to make room for one more secret under Mana's pillow.


End file.
